


a love like blood

by themadnutter



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Biting, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Choking, Fucked up themes, Knifeplay, M/M, Rough Sex, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, sort of lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 18:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themadnutter/pseuds/themadnutter
Summary: Tormented by memories, Jerome pays Oswald a late night visit.





	a love like blood

**Author's Note:**

> **warning** : this fic contains some elements of dubcon and incest. pls read at your own risk if either of those bothers you!
> 
> title taken from "love like blood" by killing joke, bc lol more jerome-themed songs/bands

Jerome is far away tonight.

The night is winding down, with half of the _guests_ in Oswald’s house having long since retired to their own rooms, doing god knows what.  It’s only Scarecrow and Tetch now, huddled at the kitchen table and exchanging quiet words interspersed with high, giddy laughter.  Normally Jerome is with them, the effervescent ringleader with a silver, trigger-happy tongue, leading them in revelry.

Instead, Jerome has settled himself on the floor, back against Oswald’s sofa as he stares into the crackling fireplace, washing his disfigured features in a burning sunset, a warm, violent ending.

Oswald takes another sip of his red wine, lingers off to the side and watches.  If Jerome notices his presence, he offers no acknowledgement. All he does is twirl a small knife around his fingers like one would a pencil, a distracted, dangerous dexterity.  

The way he stares into the fire, managing to look incredibly focused and not at all present at the same time - Oswald wonders what’s on his mind, whose reflection he sees in the dancing flames.

His mind tired and wine-fuzzy, Oswald dares to break the silence.  “Jerome?”

No response.  Just the same spinning knife, the same vicious, empty stare into the open fire.

Oswald wets his lips, more out of anxiety than a need to rid them of dryness.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Valeska.”

Oswald finishes the last of his wine, places the glass on a side table with a gentle _clack_ , and hobbles to his room.

He thinks he can feel eyes on his back, but he can’t be sure.

\--

Oswald stirs from a dream, turning in his bed with a sighing groan, chasing the remnants of sleep’s warm embrace.

Only when he settles onto his side does he notice the weight on his bed.

He’s sitting up in a flash, reaching for the gun under his pillow and shakily pointing it dead ahead of him.  

In the moonlight that peeks through his curtains, Oswald can make out the silhouette of a man crouched on the covers, a perched gargoyle breathing slow and steady.

Once his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, Oswald can see the man’s raised hand.

And that slowly, slowly spinning knife.

Oswald swallows hard enough to be audible, his finger trembling as he rests it on the trigger, an unspoken threat.

“ _What_ are you doing on my bed _in the middle of the night_?” Oswald hisses with clenched teeth.  He keeps his gun pointed forward as he slowly inches to his bedside table, switching on his lamp to its lowest setting.

For a second, Oswald wishes he kept the lights off.

Jerome’s staring at Oswald the same way he had with the fire - like Oswald is everything and nothing, something for Jerome to both see through and conquer.  The hair on the back of his neck curls; he feels too exposed, dressed in a simple silk sleep shirt and pants, in front of the fully dressed Jerome, armed to the teeth.

Jerome catches his knife by the handle, his grip white-knuckle tight.  Oswald straightens, preparing to shoot, preparing to feel the thin blade slice right between his eyes.

It doesn’t happen.  Instead, Jerome looks down at his knife like he’s seeing it for the first time, examining each side of the silver blade with morbid curiosity.  

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jerome answers, his voice far away and distracted, and Oswald almost mistakes this all for a horrible dream.

Oswald feels his face flush from a building rage, pushing to the surface of his skin like magma. “And? You can’t just break into my room and watch me sleep like a -”

Words fall short as Jerome takes his knife, tilts his head to the side, and presses one of his fingertips against the sharp point like a child touching the stove, wondering if it’s hot.  Mouth still open, Oswald can only watch in mild horror as a nonplussed Jerome presses the rest of his fingertips on his left hand onto the knifepoint, cherry beads blooming and trickling down his fingers.

“Did you love your family, Oswald?” Jerome asks, voice still so far away as he watches his own blood drip onto his palm, streaked red like crushed strawberries.

It’s the last question Oswald expects, but it’s an integral piece of the puzzle, and just like that, he can see the whole picture.

Jerome, somewhere between murderous intent and blank nothingness, staring into the fire - thinking of his twin flame.

Objectively, there is no right or wrong answer to Jerome’s question, but it feels like a test, one Oswald will pay in blood if he fails.

“Yes,” Oswald answers carefully, looking for signs of reaction on Jerome’s scarred face. “I did.”

Jerome hums, a noncommittal little sound as he stares at his hand, watches blood drip onto Oswald’s bedsheets.

When Jerome’s eyes snap up, Oswald freezes, blood running cold like he’s been splashed with ice water.  For the first time this evening, Jerome looks very, very aware.

An executioner at dawn, and Oswald doesn’t know who Jerome sees when he stares.

“Put the gun down,” Jerome orders, syllables muffled in growls and eyes unblinking.

That sounds like a ridiculously terrible, life-ending idea.  But Oswald knows how to survive through strategic acquiescence, has been singing that song for decades now, and so he carefully places the gun on the bedside table, keeping his movements slow and nonthreatening.

“That’s good,” Jerome murmurs, and those two, simple words in the mouth of a deranged murderer have no right to resonate within Oswald the way they do, stirring something old and untouched in his soul.

Jerome shuffles forward, a predatory crawl, until he can place his knees on either side of Oswald’s hips and settle himself there like a king on a throne.  Lips twist in a sharp, mocking smile as Jerome takes his bloodied hand, spreads his fingers, and places then on Oswald’s face, fingertips encompassing forehead to chin.  Oswald shirks back, an instinctive recoil, but Jerome follows, places more pressure until Oswald can feel the tacky blood anoint his skin like oil.

A few seconds pass, and then bloody fingers swoop down Oswald’s face, down the ridge of his nose and all the way to his jaw, leaving patchy streaks of red like war paint.  Oswald can smell the blood, almost chokes on the sharp tang of metal as Jerome lets his hand drop to admire his artwork. Although he tries to sit still, Oswald can’t help but to tremble, body vibrating from the mixture of violence, fear, and something altogether unnameable that grips Oswald by the throat.

Jerome makes a quiet shushing sound, a drop of softness mixed into his scarlet palette, and Oswald hates himself for responding to the quiet reassurance, to the bloody knuckles Jerome runs across his cheek.

By the time Oswald settles down, Jerome picks up his knife again.

Oswald braces himself to be stabbed (surely this is where this is leading, it must), but Jerome turns the knife this way and that in his hand, an artist examining his paintbrush.  Attention flicks back to Oswald’s wide eyes as he brings the knife forward, gently pressing it against Oswald’s lips. Unable to speak against the cold kiss of metal, Oswald can only ask, _plead_ with his eyes - _what are you doing?_

The flat edge of the blade nudges against Oswald’s lips, more and more insistent.  

“Open up,” Jerome croons.

Dizzy from adrenaline and the kindling embers of something dangerously close to desire, Oswald doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly parts his lips, lets the blade slip into his mouth and glide against his tongue.  The unpleasant taste of metal and blood makes Oswald want to gag, but any wrong movement will result in damage, so he tries to stay still, eyes squeezing shut from the effort. Jerome all but _moans_ as he edges the knife backward, nearly withdrawing it altogether before inserting it all over again, and again, and again, until he has Oswald properly fellating the weapon.  Tears prickle the corners of his eyes, bloody drool spilling past his lips as Oswald keeps his mouth as relaxed as he can, allowing himself to be used in the most degrading of ways.

“Suck it for me,” Jerome says, an aroused exhale. Oswald groans around the knife, soaks in the dirty order and obeys it to the best of his ability, gingerly suckling the blade as a tear trickles down his cheek, mingling with the drying blood.

It’s humiliating and frightening and disgusting - and Oswald groans deeper from the fresh tugs of lust, cock pressing hard against his pants.

Cracking his eyes open, Jerome is a sight to see - his face carnival bright, shameless ecstasy etched on him like new scars as he holds his knife still.  There’s a tremble to Jerome’s arm, a glint of electricity to his eyes - he’s holding back, restraining himself from causing true carnage, and just barely succeeding.

Fear snaps through Oswald’s arousal, makes him jerk against the knife and cut the edge of his tongue with a whine, mouth falling open in protest of the sharp pain.  Jerome withdraws the knife, carelessly tosses it somewhere on the bed, and crowds himself closer to Oswald, his clean hand on Oswald’s throat and his bloody one on his cheek.  There’s a wild look to Jerome’s eyes, a hauntingly raw edge that Oswald doesn’t think is meant for him.

(Maybe none of this is.)

“Sorry, baby,” Jerome cooes, sugary-sweet venom, “let me make it better.”

It’s all the warning Oswald gets before Jerome crushes their lips together, tongue pushing past Oswald’s lips to explore his warm, bloody mouth.  This shouldn’t be as good as it is, Oswald thinks, but the pressure-point against his neck and the soothing sweeps of Jerome’s tongue is a heady combination of danger and pleasure, and he lets Jerome - lets himself - have this.  He goes limp against his headboard, kisses back in eager inexperience, tries to give as good as he gets.

Submission to their violent dance flips some kind of switch in Jerome.  He growls into Oswald’s mouth, licks up the blood like it’s holy wine, nails digging into Oswald’s pale throat until he gasps, head swimming in a dizzy array of sensations.  Withdrawing for air, Jerome comes alive in feral ferocity, grabbing Oswald by his clothes and dragging him down the bed, until his head drops on his pillow and his limbs are askew on the sheets.  Jerome’s on him in an instant, pinning Oswald’s hands above his head as he kisses him again, biting at Oswald’s lips until he draws blood. Keening, Oswald arches beneath Jerome, trying to press their bodies together, needing Jerome and his violent, hungry touch so much closer than he his.  Jerome snuffles an amused sound against Oswald’s mouth, rolling his body down in a sinewy thrust, a brief, teasing fulfillment.

Jerome pulls back, his lips painted an unnaturally bright red, blood smearing his mouth like lipstick.  He bares his bloody teeth in a snarl, murmurs something that Oswald doesn’t quite catch (a name, maybe) and presses a wet kiss to Oswald’s cheek until their blood mingles, sticky and uncomfortable and beautiful.

“Ah, Jerome,” Oswald mumbles, hips lifting off the bed with a moan, an unspoken plea for something, _anything_.

Coming alive at the sound of his name, Jerome latches his teeth into Oswald’s neck, bites down harder when he howls.

“Say it again,” Jerome hisses, nips again and teases the worried-red skin.

“Jerome, Jerome, please, Jerome,” Oswald babbles, a mindless mantra that cuts off in a groan when Jerome presses wet, open mouthed kisses to Oswald’s neck in appreciation. “More.  _Jerome_.”

Ripping himself away, Jerome slides down Oswald’s body, clawing at his pajama pants until he can free Oswald’s cock, ruddy at the swollen, wet tip and delicately curved.  Jerome flicks his tongue against the head, grins when Oswald arches and all but screams from the burst of pleasure. All sense of rationality gone, Oswald mindlessly nudges his hips up, and it’s all the encouragement Jerome needs to swallow Oswald down until he’s nosing against the soft patch of curls at the base.  The velvet heat of Jerome’s mouth is divine, foreign in its newness and twice as overwhelming, and it’s all he can do to muffle sobs against his pillow as Jerome bobs his head in earnest, taking Oswald’s cock with a practiced ease.

It’s over before it really starts, Oswald all but shrieking as he comes down the back of Jerome’s throat in deep spurts, which Jerome easily swallows.  There’s a wet vibration against the sheets, and Oswald blearily looks down to see Jerome with a hand down his pants, jerking himself to completion with snarled words of hatred and praise to a recipient unknown.  Jerome turns his head, and Oswald can just catch him mouthing a name - but he can’t tell which.

When Jerome comes to, Oswald meets his eyes; the ferocity has fizzled out, replaced by a calm glassiness, like a smooth pool of water.  Gone is the hungry beast, gone is the dreamlike fugue he worked himself into earlier - all that remains is a kind of raw exhaustion and pain, an exposed, open wound for the world to see.

No, not for the world.  For Oswald, and Oswald only.

Chest heaving, Oswald tries not to think about what he must look like right now: face a mixture of sweat, tears, and shared blood, the line of pink-tinged drool against his chin, his softening cock covered in cum and traces of blood.  He should say something to Jerome, probably, something like _what the fuck was that_ and _are you okay_ and _were you thinking of him or me when you came_ , but nothing sounds right, too clunky to encompass all that he feels.  

How terrible to have a surge of sympathy for Jerome for the first time, and being unsure of how to reach out and express it.

He doesn’t have words, but he has this: a tender heart and a soft hand, which, as he sits up, he gingerly presses to Jerome’s cheek.  Jerome’s reaction is instantaneous, a low, content purr as he leans into Oswald’s palm, tongue languidly licking at the clammy skin, and it feels like gratitude, like a confession.  His eyes are heavily lidded now, exhaustion hopefully settling in, a feeling Oswald finds mutual.

There’s a dull ache forming in his head, the results of an unexpectedly overwhelming night.  Deciding against attempting to process and unpack what has transpired, he goes with his second train of thought: that right now, he is in dire need of shower.

“I’m going to clean up,” Oswald says, careful but firm as he drops his hand and scoots toward the edge of the bed.

Jerome doesn’t say anything, just stares in that odd, lost way of his, looking much smaller in the sea of Oswald’s tangled, bloody blankets. Oswald sighs, mutters a _whatever_ , and makes his way to the attached bathroom, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure Jerome isn’t about to throw a knife at his back.

He doesn’t.  He just sits in Oswald’s bed and looks down at his bloody hands, seeing something that Oswald cannot.

\--

By the time Oswald steps out of the shower, Jerome is gone.

After checking in the closet and under the bed to make sure Jerome isn’t hiding away somewhere, Oswald locks his bedroom door and retires to bed.  Kicking away the sullied sheets, Oswald curls up on his side and squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep.

He’s almost drifted off when his foot brushes against something cold, jarring him awake.  Sitting up, he blindly feels around the foot of his bed for the object, only pausing when his hand grazes over a familiar metal surface.

The knife.

The petty part of Oswald wants to throw it against a wall or toss it into the trash can without a second thought.  But he runs the pad of his thumb against the flat edge of the blade, pondering. He remembers how Jerome fucked his mouth with it in a lewd display of power, and how the fire died in Jerome’s eyes when the show was over and all that remained was their bloody selves and old memories that clearly haunted Jerome.

Oswald wonders if Jerome has finally managed to sleep, or if he’s still awake, licking his literal and metaphorical wounds.

Another swell of sympathy creeps along Oswald’s skin as he remembers how Jerome melted into Oswald’s touch, how he looked so in need of a kindness even when he may not have deserved it.

But then again, did any of them?

With a heavy exhale, Oswald carefully places the knife at his bedside table, a memento of the night that he will return to Jerome tomorrow.

Closing his eyes, Oswald settles back in bed, splashes of reds and oranges forming behind his eyes like fiery watercolor as he drifts to sleep.

 


End file.
